


halifax 2018.

by badaltin



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Angst and Feels, Dancing and Singing, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Guitars, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Yuri Plisetsky, M/M, Motorcycles, Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky Are Best Friends, Otabek is a gentleman, Singing, They have fun, Vacation, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, antique shops and empty restaurants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 07:11:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10531476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badaltin/pseuds/badaltin
Summary: “If Yuri went the rest of his life without knowing another person but Otabek, he wouldn't mind it too much. He said as much to Otabek yesterday during dinner, and he had smiled.'I don't think I would mind it, either,' Otabek had said, eyes crinkling. That was another thing about Otabek, Yuri learned. His expressions were quiet, but honest in the simplest form of the word. He never lied, and Yuri has never known a person like that before.”Or: Yuri and Otabek arrive in Canada a week early, and Yuri finally gets it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> FIRST WORK IN YOI FANDOM AND I'M PUMPED. I've got a thousand and one fics planned already; this is the start of something awesome. god do i love yuri on ice. 
> 
> [i've invented the location of skate canada 2018, so this is not true to life. also note: i'm an american, but i'm using the metric system here since the characters are neither american nor in america]
> 
> please, enjoy!
> 
> \-------
> 
> 02/21/18 update: GUYS CHECK OUT THE [MOODBOARD AND PLAYLIST](http://onotherflights.tumblr.com/post/171115685287/halifax-2018-fanfic-by-badaltin-playlist-9) @ONOTHERFLIGHTS MADE FOR THIS FIC!!!!!! I'M LOVE

It was about ten degrees here in Halifax, and they were riding around the city just to try and catch the wind.

_Flying in early was a good idea_ , Yuri thought for the millionth time that week. While everyone was puttering around back at their home rinks and packing and readying for Skate Canada, Otabek and Yuri were already here. And they were enjoying the hell out of themselves.

Yuri hugged Otabek a little tighter; Otabek responded by taking his hand off one of the handles and covered Yuri's with his own. This was what they did – they spoke through touch and weight and the barest hint of a smile and shaking shoulders. The glance of knuckles against a forearm. A subtle intake of breath. Shifting from one foot to the other. A hum for why not, a hum for I guess, a hum for _I'm gonna pretend that I'm not interested but I'm actually going to shit myself if we don't get going **right the fuck now**._

If Yuri went the rest of his life without knowing another person but Otabek, he wouldn't mind it too much. He said as much to him yesterday during dinner, and he had smiled.

“I don't think I would mind it, either,” Otabek had said, eyes crinkling. That was another thing about Otabek, Yuri learned. His expressions were quiet, but honest in the simplest form of the word. He never lied, and Yuri has never known a person like that before. Otabek had smiled, and it was the pleasant crackling of a hearth fire.

It was home.

The rented motorcycle came to a stop behind a rusty truck, and at the stoplight, Yuri's eyes caught on a storefront.

“Hey,” he said, nudging Otabek. “We should check that place out.”

“Which one?” His voice felt like Yuri's _dedushka's_ car rumbling over a gravel driveway.

“The pawn shop, right over... there. See it? It looks pretty kickin', right?”

“Hmm.”

“Once this long-ass light changes, can we go inside?”

Otabek hummed again. Yuri grinned so wide he was sure his teeth would pop out of his skull.

_Of course_.

Once inside, the store reminded Yuri of those rat mazes he saw in science class. Narrow aisles jutted out in a labyrinth of antiques stacked to the ceiling and packed to absolute capacity; he couldn't see past three shelves, where the catacombs of human nostalgia hit a sharp corner and continued out of sight.

Otabek and Yuri looked at each other, eyes twinkling to the same beat. They explored, stopping constantly at every note-worthy item they found. Yuri snapped a photo of a box filled with dismembered computer keys while Otabek examined a display of lock-picks and keychains. He began to sift through Instagram filters, but scrapped it on second thought.

“Yura.” Yuri looked up, and cackled. Otabek stood with his copyrighted stony face, and his fingers were elegantly curled around an impressive – if not excessive – wooden pipe.

“Holy shit, this is for Instagram.” Yuri wheezed, and snapped a picture. Otabek's eyes crinkled, and he exchanged his wooden pipe for one carved from ivory.

“God, Beka, I don't even think that's legal.” Yuri took another picture of his friend, and his heart stuttered at the kindness in Otabek's lips. He decided he'd keep this image for himself.

“May I, um, see?” Otabek asked. He was wary of social media, (no, scratch that – the Kazakh man _hated_ it,) and he carefully checked the few pictures Yuri wanted to post of him.

Yuri pulled up the first photo, the one with the wooden pipe, to Otabek. The man nodded, and Yuri quickly returned to Instagram.

_Almost 20, but is already an old man. #otabekaltin #canada_

Yuri didn't show him the second photo.

They continued, each aisle its own alcove of unique items, so thick with history and gaudy embellishments it hung like humidity in the air. Yuri found a racially-insensitive ceramic doll beneath a shitty buoy and $70 naval cap. He found jars of dirt from German World War 2 battles. He found a fertility statue locked in a glass vault with a plaque that read _Do NOT Touch!!! ASK For Assistance!!!!_

Yuri snickered, and took a selfie next to it.

“Yura,”

Otabek shifted, and Yuri followed his gaze to a ragged acoustic guitar propped up between two shelves. Without question he followed Otabek over to it and shoved his phone into his pocket as an afterthought. The older man crouched down and gingerly plucked at one of the strings. An unhappy note flung from the depths of the instrument and splattered across the carpet. Otabek winced. He gingerly took it into his hands, and sat down on the nearby piano bench. He thumbed at a couple other strings, and eyes narrowing in concentration, he cautiously twisted the tuning pegs. Yuri watched in fascination. Sour sounds adjusted into something sweeter.

When Otabek was satisfied, he formed himself around the guitar, and oh. _Oh_.

The first few notes were pulled into the air, and Yuri's breath hitched. He knew this song. From where, he couldn't tell you. But he knew it.

For someone so powerful on the ice and in the weight room, Otabek had the most tender hands. Index, middle, and ring fingers worked with his thumb on his right hand to pluck out notes. He didn't rip them out of the instrument like Yuri's seen rock stars do on his _dedushka's_ television; no, Otabek guided them into the world and lifted them up into the room, an offering to anyone close enough to listen. Yuri's heard him play over Skype, but he hasn't _heard_ him until now.

It was different from the Kazakh’s skating by a time zone’s difference. His skating was all power and artistic endurance and the culmination of years fighting with claws and teeth and bone. It was incredible to witness.

This, though. Otabek wasn’t even _trying_ , for Christ’s sake. These were his hands, his calloused and gentle fingers creating, making, molding, perfecting. This was Otabek: his closest, most tender friend, and he was just _inviting_ this gold-petaled music out into the space between two clustered racks in a pawn shop.

This was Otabek. Playing just because.

The tune itself had a resolving, question-answer melody. It was simple. Unobtrusive. Candid. It was repeated, over and over, yet it didn't wear itself out.

_Bayushki bayu._

The words came to Yuri seemingly from a dream. Oh. He knew this song.

Nostalgia and something else pricked at his eyes, and Yuri was mortified at himself. _Eyes of a soldier, eyes of a soldier, eyes of a-_

He blinked, and water caught on his eyelashes. He sniffed.

Otabek looked up, and stiffened. The last chord rang out, hanging in the air before dissipating and leaving behind the quiet of the store. “Yura?”

Yuri turned his head, thankful for his hood, and petulantly rubbed at his pink nose. “I'm fine,” he answered the unasked question.

Otabek sat down the guitar. He was close, but not close enough to make Yuri feel trapped. Yuri's heart throbbed.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Did I do something wrong?” Russian was Otabek's second language following Kazakh; both were widely spoken in bilingual Kazakhstan. He spoke to Yuri in the most tender Russian the younger has heard outside of his grandfather's apartment. “Would you like to go back?”

Yuri glanced down at the ground before meeting Otabek's eyes once more. He scuffed the heel of his boot against the floor, and pulled himself together. _Don't be a crybaby like Katsudon. You probably made Otabek feel bad_. Dregs of guilt swirled in Yuri's gut. He convinced himself it was hunger and looked irritated.

“I want some food! I feel like I haven't eaten since that garbage at the airport. Ugh.”

Otabek and Yuri put their wares on the high counter. Several cat pins, a lucky cat figurine, a “babes only” crop top, studded platform boots, a book on identifying species of herbs – “ _that's so lame, Otabek! You could have gotten that record-player or that kickass DJ bumper sticker, but you got-” “I like herbs_.” - a decorative spoon set, and a jade brooch.

“One more thing,” Otabek said, and pulled a tiger-striped leather jacket out of nowhere. “On my card.”

Yuri's eyes bulged out of his head, mouth opening. Nowhere else on planet earth would Yuri be able to find such an item than at a pawn shop. The jacket was glorious, in all its tiger-striped, pattern-embroidered glory. It's perfect, Yuri realized, for riding on Otabek's motorcycle. It took a second for him to refocus. “You don't have to do that.”

“I don't have to, but I am.” Otabek quietly smiled. “It's a gift.” He nodded thanks to the clerk, and picked up the bag. They walked outside, Yuri's eyes temporarily spotting and vision stuttering as they emerged from the dim store into the bright afternoon.

Otabek opened the motorcycle's side compartments, and evenly distributed their goods between both sides. Yuri stopped Otabek, and shrugged out of his coat to put on the leather one. Otabek's smile blinded Yuri for a second time. Pictures and FaceTime calls were nothing in comparison to the real, tangible Otabek.

As they peeled out of the parking lot, Yuri leaned his head against Otabek's back. _This is Otabek,_ he reminded himself. He's here, right now, and Yuri has him for a few more days before they must return to their respective rinks in preparation for the Finals.

Tomorrow, the others arrive. And then, the competition.

Yuri scrunched his eyes. _Stop it, dumbass! Beka's right here, you're getting lunch-dinner together, and you're gonna suck it up and get over yourself._

.

They end up in a semi-fancy “_ and Son's” place on the outskirts of town, right up against where the cliff met the Atlantic Ocean ten meters below. It was between the lunch and dinner rushes, and not a soul was in the dining hall. Yuri quirked an eyebrow at Otabek, almost level with the Kazakh in height. “You want to eat here?”

Otabek shrugged, but his eyes were soft. “I saw it on Yelp-”

“-of course you did-”

“-and we're the only ones here.”

“And that's a good thing?” Yuri questioned.

Otabek looked mischievous. “It could be.” He led Yuri into the middle of the spacious hall. Clean tables were set at the sides of the restaurant, while the center held a modest wooden stage and an upright piano. “We can sit wherever we want to.”

Yuri pouted, finger on his lower lip as if in thought. He thought he saw Otabek's eyes catch on the movement, but he was probably imagining things. “What if I'm not sure which table I want to sit at?”

“I suppose we can try out a few.”

They sat down at a booth in the back. Yuri made a show of adjusting himself in the seat, testing the cushion. He shook his head sadly. “Not this one. Too hard! It could distract me from the taste or whatever.”

Otabek nodded, and led Yuri to a tall two-seater next to the wall-length window. At this moment, a waitress came by. She apologized for the delay, and promptly took their drink orders. Yuri tutted down at his menu. “I can't read crap with this window here! Guess we'll have to move again.”

Otabek leaned his chin against his hand. “Want to try again? I don't think the other customers would mind.” Yuri flashed his teeth, and pointed at the fat circular table behind the piano.

“I want to do that one.”

Otabek stood up, and pulled Yuri's chair out for him. “A kitten as little as yourself doesn't need a party table, Yuratchka. Unless you want to feel big?”

Anyone else would be doubled over on the ground for that type of comment, but Yuri only sneered at the laughter in Otabek's eyes. Yuri had grown in leaps and bounds, but it regressed his skill levels at skating while he figured out his new dimensions. The struggle would have been worth it, too, if not for the fact that the others kept with the 'fun size' jokes. But Otabek knew when to lay back on the teasing, and when to prod and poke.

They sat down beside one another, and Otabek nodded. “This one will do, don't you think?” Yuri agreed, and they shrugged off their coats and poured over the menu.

The waitress returned, face dropping in blank confusion before finding the two men. “Are you ready to order?” she asked, setting down their drinks.

“I want crab puffs. And whatever this thing is. And applesauce.”

Otabek still had the menu open, as if he hadn't already decided what he wanted two minutes ago. “I'll take cheddar and broccoli soup, please. No appetizers.”

She was about to leave before a visible thought popped into her head. “Our pianist is out tonight, but we have her recordings available.”

At their consent, she flipped on the radio atop the piano, gestured to the CDs, and hurried back to the kitchen. Yuri swept out of his chair and picked his way to the radio. “Otabek. Come look at these.”

He watched Otabek carefully fold up the dining cloth he had over his lap, bowing over the table to push back his chair enough to step out. Yuri snorted, not unkindly.

“What?” Otabek was watching him, eyebrow raised incrementally.

“You're just so... so... _proper_. Bleh.” Yuri flicked his wrist, a vague gesture meant to convey how totally dumb manners and such decorum was. Because it was super stupid. Except maybe when it came to Otabek. But everyone else was dumb.

Otabek came up beside him, gentle, steady heat coaxing into Yuri's muscle tissue and bones. He looked up, and Yuri couldn't stop the slight hitch in breathing as Otabek gave him his quiet smile. “Let's see what they have here,” he said.

The CD book was thick and heavy, four CDs to a page and stuffed to the brim, each with a title Sharpie'd onto its surface.

“Oh,” Otabek said. “La Campanella.”

“Yes?”

“I used this piece in a routine.”

Oooooooh, did he now? Yuri narrowed his eyes playfully. He slid the disk out of its pocket, and dropped it into the radio.

_**Bum bum bum** ding ding ding, **bum bum bum** ding ding ding, **bum** ding ding, **bum** ding... ding..._ A pause, an inhale, and then the piece took off.

“Start.”

“What?” Otabek looked surprised. “This was from many years ago; I don't remember most of it.”

“Then do what you remember,” Yuri explained as if to a younger version of the man standing before him. At this, Otabek's cheeks drew color from the blood rushing to them. Yuri leaned against the side of the piano, pushing in the stool as if to say, _hurry the fuck up, Beka, you know I'm not a very patient man_.

Otabek moved towards the center of the stage, body loose as his eyebrows furrowed to figure out where he was in the music. Suddenly, he jerked his head, and spun in a wide ark. At first, he forgot to be embarrassed, focused entirely on the quick tempo. But as the trills climbed higher, Yuri saw Otabek falter. “I'm not sure, here,” he murmured, eyes looking away from Yuri. “I think there's a jump..?”

“Do it.”

Otabek flushed again, and set up for an Axel. He made an awkward hop into the air, and Yuri howled. “No, no, keep going!” Yuri encouraged when Otabek stopped. “No, please, Ota – oh my _god_ , Beka, _no_!”

Laughter bubbled through his chest and made his body weightless. Otabek stumbled, a sequence missing from his memory, before recognition lit his dark eyes and he started again. But this time, he was into it. He got all up in Yuri's personal space, arms nearly trapping him against the piano before stepping back on light feet, winking, and turning into the twirl. Yuri hooted against the pounding of his heart. Otabek winked a _second_ time, the fucker, and spread his feet into his ending position. His chest rose and fell, and he relaxed.

“Jesus, Beka, how old were you when you did that? I hope you fired your choreographers – I'd cut a bitch if someone gave me that to perform.”

Otabek's teeth smiled broadly at Yuri. “I was probably ten? Eleven, maybe. And I think someone at the mall I practiced at made that routine.”

“Huh.”

They both returned to the CD book, removing the disk spinning fruitlessly in the radio. “Oh!” Yuri cried triumphantly. “Here.” The unmistakable opening of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata poured from the speakers. “This was from Viktor's angsty years.”

“You mean to say more angsty than he normally is?” Otabek asked, chuckling. Yuri hummed, and stepped out onto the floor.

He opened his arms wide, pulling his face into an exaggerated expression of despair. “Oh, Otabek,” he started, voice thickening and lilting in mockery of Viktor's. “My coffee was too hot this morning, and I feel so betrayed by something I love!” Yuri took maudlin steps, moving his arms outrageously. “I must express myself – through dance!” He leaped and extended into a comical arabesque.

He looked over, smiling wickedly. Otabek clapped, face of delight. Deliberately, he moved across the floor, body ebbing and flowing with the music. “Like this?” he asked. He dipped into a deep lunge, forehead almost touching his knee, hands moving up his thigh, curving with his torso, up to ruffle his thick locks.

“Oh my god, get the fuck off the ground before I have to hurt you!” Yuri cackled, feeling it burn in his belly, and Otabek stood up tall, face pink with exertion. The piano ground to a slow, utterly dramatic halt. He stuck Tristesse, which he had spotted earlier, into the slot and sprang backwards onto the floor. “Watch and learn, Altin,” he said, and Otabek's eyes never wavered.

.

Eventually, Otabek found Allegro Appassionato in B Minor. Without hesitation, he stuck it into the player and Yuri kicked off his boots.

Yuri's pulse throbbed in his ears and chest and thumb and neck. _Am I nervous?_ He didn't have time to ponder that, because the opening notes tumbled from the stereo and he leapt into action. His changing body has caused his skills to decrease, gaining weight and stretching past previous limits and shifting his center of gravity, and the musical arrangement is different to make up for the non-piano instrumentals, but he's moving, and soaring, and his heart rises up into his throat, an unswallowable mass of something that expands every time Otabek flashes into his sight before blurring back into the spinning landscape -

\- and Otabek is there, speaking terrible praises in their mother tongue of Russian, beautiful things too big for this room, too big for this planet, probably, and too much for Yuri to handle, miniature explosions in his heart and lungs and lower, too much for anyone to be able to tolerate, too much of himself exposed, how can anyone go through their life knowing feelings like this exist, that someone could make them feel this good, this much, and he can't continue any longer but he never wants this piece to end -

\- and Yuri was left there gasping, a pregnant pause after the music stopped. Then, applause. He spun around in confusion. The nervous waitress stood next to the proud-faced chef, both clapping without restraint.

“Bravo!” the chef called, the waitress nodding furiously in agreement. Yuri's face turned kettle-hot at having been caught dancing by two someones that most certainly were _not_ Otabek Altin. Yuri caught Otabek's gaze, the Kazakh's eyes ignited with something beyond explanation or comprehension. Yuri was jerked back into reality by the chef's hand on his shoulder.

“Bravo, I say! If I knew we had a dancer here tonight I would have called Aimee in to play! But that's behind us, eh? Here! Make sure you eat plenty – for energy!

“Now, come! We have your orders – please, enjoy!”

Yuri pushed stray strands of blond hair back from his face, and asked, “did you bring my applesauce?”

.

They moved for a fourth time, now outside and with food in front of them. The light of the sky was dying, and in its place lanterns made themselves known to the streets and patio. The mercury had dropped since the afternoon, and the wind off the ocean chilled Yuri's hands and cheeks – what his leather jacket didn't cover.

He clenched his empty fist where it lay on the table. Otabek reached with his right, gently covering Yuri's fist with his hand. He turned Yuri's fist over, coaxing him to relax his hand and curl around his fingers. He was always so warm.

They both looked up to see what the other was thinking. Otabek's eyes roved over the planes of Yuri's face, as if trying to burn the image of him beneath the patio's lighting into his memory forever. His eyes stilled at last, meeting Yuri's. There was amazement in them - only for Yuri. The lanterns reflected in them, twinkling like the stars they've seen together out in the country where the universe was theirs. Otabek's expression resembled that of a man offered the constellations above and all that dared to exist beyond. Like he was shocked to have Yuri here, existing in the same space as he did. Like Yuri was precious.

The younger man was trembling. The heat in Yuri's hand rose like a tide up his arm, spilling down his toes and peaking at his ears. He was addicted to the feel of Otabek's hand in his, the way the ocean sounded in his ears as it crashed against the cliffs. Applesauce and cinnamon. The distant tinkling of silverware and glass from the dinner crowd. The air, sea salt and broccoli and cheddar soup and electricity skittering across the space between the molecules packed impossibly dense between their shivering bodies.

Otabek's lips parted, a slight whoosh of air escaping his throat. It was incredibly intimate, and the single tether Yuri had to reality was the warmth of Otabek's fingers curled around his.

He was always so warm, to Yuri. For Yuri. _You're always warm, and I think I love you for that_.

Yuri's eyes widened, and his heart came to a grinding, screeching halt. No. He couldn't think that – he wasn't allowed. _But it's true, isn't it_? Yuri asked himself. _This is dangerous. You could get hurt._

_But I don't care._

Yuri opened his mouth. “Your elbow's on the table.”

He was absolutely mortified with himself. _What the fuck is wrong with you? Damn, Plisetsky, why the shit did you do that?_

Otabek flushed, and withdrew his hand. _No, goddamnit, get back here!_ Otabek smoothed over his napkin. “I apologize.”

“No, I, uh – mmm, I just -” Yuri wanted to tear his fucking hair out of his fucked-up head. “Fuck,” Yuri said.

Otabek watched him, waiting.

“I just, I'm really bad at this. I mean, I wouldn't know, obviously, but... yeah. Yeah.”

Otabek sipped at his drink, but he was smiling over the brim. His eyes danced. “Maybe we should head back.”

Yuri stood up to leave, and clenched his midsection. Searing pain, doubled that what he felt earlier today at the store, shot up his gut and speared his heart like a boar. He genuinely believed it was heartburn, at first, until it lurched with Otabek's hand on his shoulder. Yuri squeezed his eyelids shut, willing away tears.

This was their last day together. By tomorrow, this will all be gone, lost to preparations for the Finals.

Another shard of glass ruthlessly stabbed at his insides, twisting cruelly. Is this love? Yuri wondered. _Otabek is going to leave, and I feel like I'm dying. Is this love_?

_I don't want this. Take it back, Beka. Hate me and make the hurt more bearable._

“Yura?” Otabek asked. His hand squeezed Yuri's shoulder, turning to face him.

Yuri violently brushed him off. “I'm fine.” He scowled. “This shitty place you picked out gave me heartburn. Great job, Otabek, really great job.”

Otabek recoiled, the venom of his friend's words visibly poisoning him. He looked ready to cry, and Yuri never knew true self-loathing until now. Otabek shrugged, his robot legs carrying him into the restaurant to pay for their meal.

Yuri was a filthy coward; he hated himself, disgust roiling in his gut and stirring the crab puffs from dinner. He did not follow Otabek: instead, he marched out to the motorcycle, unrecognizable to himself. The helmet was a lead crown on his head and he was shaking so hard he worried it would lose balance and drag him down with it.

Otabek left the restaurant carrying an acrid fog of anger on his back. The silence was deadly as he strapped on his helmet.

“You leave a tip?” _Stay steadfast, Plisetsky, this will be worth it in the long run. Eyes of a soldier_.

“Hmm.” Yuri hadn't heard that noise from Otabek before. It was alien, and a hairline crack split his stony reserve. _You're despicable. You did this_.

Otabek positioned himself on the bike, and Yuri followed. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, voice creaking. Otabek stilled. He revved the engine, and Yuri slid his arms around Otabek and pressed his chest to him. They peeled into the town, streetlamps mocking them the entire time.

.

They were in a silence as unbreakable as it was unbearable when it happened. Yuri was on his bed and Otabek in the armchair. Yuri refreshed Instagram compulsively, glancing up each time it stopped to load. Otabek resolutely ignored him, reading a pamphlet he took from the front desk. Yuri panted, switching over to Twitter. That lost its novelty, too.

Yuri looked up. Otabek had a book open in his lap, his thumb held between his upper teeth and bottom lip. His wide shoulders were squared, and his brows were determinedly furrowed in concentration. His tongue slipped over his thumb, and he fingered the next page to turn it, and -

And it was that dumb plant book.

Yuri burst into tears.

Otabek raised his head and panic twisted his face; he jumped up from the armchair without hesitation. He crawled onto the bed as quickly as he could without disturbing the mattress, and when Yuri realized this, he bawled harder.

He felt hands press deep into the muscles of his shoulders before they wrapped around his midsection. Otabek scooted closer, chest to Yuri's back, and he pulled Yuri onto his lap. Yuri felt like he was in the berth of a ship as Otabek rocked them. Otabek tucked his chin into the space between Yuri's jaw and shoulder, and he outlined Yuri's legs with his own.

Yuri shook apart in his arms, tears and snot collecting at his chin, wretched breaths forced out of his body to be hurled at the walls. He hated Otabek. He hated his stupid riding gloves. His thick eyebrows. The motorcycles. His dumb bear at the kiss and cry. He hated his Korean dramas. His music theory knowledge and his useless trivia on the evolution of music genres dating back to the early 1400s. His unyielding sense of style. His general introversion. His books, his hands, his aversion toward social media.

The control he held over himself. His determination. His stoicism. His hidden talents. The way he bites his nails when he thinks that no one is looking. His guitar. His singing. How he picks up worms he finds on the sidewalk after it rains. How he will carefully cut out each and every coupon from a newspaper. His dexterity. How his handwriting looks like a Microsoft Word font. His weakness for children. How he holds himself, how he walks, the shape of his body. His dry delivery of sarcasm. His courage. His pride in his country. His ambition, his drive for self-improvement, his humility and strategic reservation. The things he didn't know were special and unique to him.

Yuri hated how mentally and emotionally exposed he was to Yuri in the morning, with sleep lingering in his system. How he put his electric clippers in Yuri's palms and trusted him to buzz his undercut. How he refused Yuri nothing. How he made Yuri comfortable wherever, whenever, and however they were. How his hand felt in Yuri's, how his body felt against his. How he looked at Yuri.

How he loved Yuri. And how Yuri loved him. The Russian teenager's body ached with the intensity of his emotions, and held himself together by Otabek's embrace and sheer will. Slowly, finally, he came back to himself.

The three seconds it took for Yuri to grab a wad of tissue paper and return to sit in front of Otabek on the bed were excruciating. He furiously rubbed at his face, and Otabek grabbed his hand and guided it into a gentler pace. Then, he brushed the pad of his thumb under Yuri's eye and cradled his jaw in his hands. Yuri curled into the beautiful man before him.

“What's wrong, Yuratchka?”

Yuri shook his head into Otabek's chest. They were quiet, for a time, Otabek rubbing circles into Yuri's back. And then Yuri felt the rumble of Otabek's voice.

_Spi mladyenets, moi prekrasný,_

These were lyrics to the song at the antique shop, Yuri realized.  
  
_bayushki bayu,_  
_tikho smotrit myesyats yasný_  
_f kolýbyel tvayu._

Yuri was home, in bed, cradled in his _dedushka's_ arms as his intoxicated mother tore herself apart in the kitchen. His _dedushka_ smoothed his hands over Yuri's blanket, voice steady.

_Sim uznayesh, budit vremya,_  
_branoye zhityo,_  
_smyelo vdyenish nogu f stremya_  
_i vazmyosh ruzhyo._

_The time will come when you will learn_  
_The soldier's way of life,_  
_Boldly you'll place your foot into the stirrup_  
_And take the gun._

Otabek held him, and didn't let go. He was a constant, warm presence, and he loved Yuri.

_The saddle-cloth for your battle horse_  
_I will sew for you from silk._  
_Sleep now, my dear little child,_  
_Bayushki bayu._

He cooed the words into the crown of Yuri's head, willing them into him. He was beautiful. His arms meant safety, and no one could hurt Yuri while he was in them.

_You will look like a hero_  
_And be a Cossack deep in your heart._

Yuri closed his eyes, and molded his body into Otabek's until they could go no further. Otabek moved his hands to the back of Yuri's skull, tenderly, and pressed his lips just below the other's hairline.

_Pravazhat' tibya ya výdu,_  
_tý makhnyosh rukoi._  
_Skolko gorkikh slyoz ukradkoi_  
_ya f tu notsh pralyu!_

_I will accompany you and watch you go,_  
_You will just wave your hand._  
_How many secret bitter tears_  
_Will I shed that night!_

Yuri wanted to ask him, more desperately than anything he's ever desired. God, did he want to ask him.

_Spi, moi angel, tikho, sladko,_  
_bayushki bayu._

_Sleep, my angel, calmly, sweetly,_  
_Bayushki bayu._

It wouldn't even be that hard, really. To beg Otabek to leave Kazakhstan and come home, to Russia, with Yuri. To train; to deal with the sickening couple; to speed up the process of Yakov's hair loss. But Yuri couldn't do that to him. It would be the single most selfish thing he'd ever do, and he'd never _ever_ force Otabek to make that choice. It was unthinkable.

But he couldn't stop from being sad. The song was sad, because it's what his _dedushka_ sang to lull him to sleep; it's sad, because it reminded Yuri of home; it's sad, because he will go back to St Petersburg and Otabek will not follow.

Otabek's voice trailed off, until it was just the vibrating in his chest; and then that trailed off, too. Yuri gasped around a single, wretched sob.

Otabek pulled Yuri back by his shoulders, holding him to see his face. “What am I doing wrong?” He was lost, searching Yuri's face for any trace of an answer. “What am I doing? I'm sorry.”

“I don't want you to go,” Yuri said, unable to meet his eyes.

“I'm right here, Yura. I'm not going anywhere.”

“I'm not talking about tonight.”

Otabek sagged, strength leaving him behind for a man who didn't care nearly so much as he did. He pressed their brows together, hands on necks and waists, legs tangled. “I know,” he whispered. He sounded broken. “I know.”

Yuri breathed him in. Home was now an abstraction, to him. He had his rink in St Petersburg, his _dedushka's_ apartment in Moscow, and he had this, right here, with Otabek. Which was his home? Where did he want to stay, where did he feel safe? Which felt like losing a limb when he left it?

“Otabek, I...”

“I know, Yura. I know.” He grazed his lips against Yuri's, once, and pulled him into a hug.

Yuri leaned his head against his shoulder, so similar to what he did just that morning on the bike. _I'm so fucking glad we flew in early,_ he thought, even though it hurt. _I'm so happy for this._

Meeting up only a few times a year wasn't nearly enough, but Yuri could wait. It was worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> leave kudos and any comments you may have! they really do make a person's day, and help to increase the quality of future works. the song is "cossack lullaby," if you were curious.
> 
> thank you for reading! you can find me on my new [tumblr](http://badaltin.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [edit: added link]


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